"Did you step on one?" questioned a tall, hard-handed, earnest-faced
man, who at the instant had come up to the stone-wall on which Jeremy
stood, surveying the camp and its surroundings.
"No, I didn't," retorted the lad; "but I wish Boston was _paved_ all
over with chestnut-burs, and that every pesky British officer in it
had to walk barefoot from end to end fourteen times a day, I do; and
the fourteenth time I'd order two or three Colony generals to take a
turn with 'em. General Gates for one."
"Come along, Jeremy," called his companion, who had strode across the
wall and gone on, regardless of the boy's words.
When Jeremy had ended his expressed wishes, he gathered up his
hatchet, dinner-basket, and coil of stout cord, and plunged through
the snow after his leader.
When he had overtaken him, the impulsive lad's heart burst out at the
lips with the words: "_We_ could take Boston _now_, just as easy as
anything--without wasting a jot of powder either. Skip across the ice,
don't you see, and be right in there before daylight. A big army lying
still for months and months, and just doing nothing but wait for folks
in Boston to starve out! I _say_ it's shameful; now, too, when the ice
has come that General Washington has been waiting all winter for."
"You won't help your country one bit by scolding about it, Jeremy.
You'd better save your strength for cutting willow-rods to-day."
"I'd cut like a hurricane if the rods were only going to whip the
enemy with. But just for sixpence a day--pshaw! I say, it don't pay."
"Look here, lad, can you keep a secret?"
"Trust me for that," returned Jeremy. Turning suddenly upon his
questioner, he faced him to listen to a supposed bit of information.
"Then why on earth are you talking to _me_ in that manner, boy?"
questioned the man.
"Why you _know_ all about it, just as well as I do; and a fellow
_must_ speak out in the woods or _somewhere_. Why, I get so mad and
hot sometimes that it seems as if every thought in me would burn right
out on my face, when I think about my poor mother over there,"
pointing backward to the three-hilled city.
The two were standing at the moment midway of a corn-field. The
February wind was lifting and rustling and shaking rudely the withered
corn-stalks, with their dried leaves. To the northward lay the
Cambridge camp, across the Charles River. To the south and east, just
over Muddy River and Stony Brook, lay the right wing of the American
Army, with here a fort and there a redoubt stretching at intervals all
the distance between the camp at Cambridge and Dorchester Neck, on the
southeast side of Boston. Behind them, to the westward, lay Cedar
Swamp, while not more than half a mile to the front there was a
four-gun battery and Brookline Fort, on the Charles, near by.
While Jeremy Jagger was pouring forth his words with vociferous
violence, the man by his side glanced eagerly about the wide field;
but, satisfying himself that no one was within hearing, he said,
resting his hatchet on the lad's shoulder while speaking: "See here,
my boy. The brave man never boasts of his bravery nor the trustworthy
man of his trustworthiness. How you learned what you know of the plans
of General Washington I do not care to ask; but to-day and all days
keep quiet and show yourself worthy of being trusted."
"I'll try as hard as I can," promised Jeremy.
"No one can have tried his best without accomplishing something that
it was grand to do, though not always _just what_ he was trying to
do," responded the man, glancing kindly down upon the fresh, eager
lad, tramping through the snow, at his side. "Don't forget. 'Silence
is golden,' in war always. Not a word, mind, when you get home, about
the work of to-day."
They were come now to a spot where the marsh seemed to be filled with
sounds of wood-cutting. As they plunged into Cedar Swamp, the sounds
grew nearer and multiplied. It was like the rapid firing of muskets.
Running through the swamp there was a trout-brook, that bore along its
borders a dense growth of water-willows.
And now they advanced within sight of at least two hundred men and
boys, every one of whom worked away as though his life depended on
cutting a certain amount of willow-boughs in a given time.
"What does it all mean?" questioned Jeremy.
"It means," replied his companion, "work for your country to-day with
all your might and main."
"But, pray tell me," persisted Jeremy, "what under the sun the things
are for, anyway. They're good for nothing for fire-wood, green."
Mr. Wooster turned and looked at the lad and said: "A good soldier
asks no questions and marches, without knowing whither. He also cuts,
without knowing for what. Now, to work!" and, at the instant they
mingled with the workmen.
In less than a minute Jeremy's dinner-basket was swinging on a
willow-bough, his coat was hanging protectingly over it (you must
remember that it contained Jeremy Jagger's birthday cake), and the
lad's own arms were working away to the musical sounds of a hatchet
beating on a vast amount of "whistle-stuff," until mid-day and hunger
arrived in company.
At the signal for noon Jeremy Jagger began his birthday feast. He
perched himself on a stout willow-branch, hanging the basket on a
conveniently growing peg at his right hand, and, by frequent
examination of the store within, was able to solace two or three lads,
less fortunate than himself, who were taking the mid-day rest,
refreshed by plain bread and cheese, seated on a branch, lower down on
the same tree.
"It isn't _every_ day that a fellow eats his birthday dinner in the
woods," he exclaimed, by way of apology for the dainties he tossed
down to them in the shape of sugar-cake and "spice pie." "Aunt Hannah
was pretty liberal with me this morning. I wonder if she knew
anything, for she said: 'I'd find plenty of squirrels to help eat it.'
Where do you live, anyway?" he questioned, after he had fed them.
"We live in Brookline," answered the elder.
"Well, do you know what under the sun we are cutting such bundles of
fagots for to-day?" he slyly questioned, being beyond the hearing of
the ears of his friend, and so safe from censure.
"I asked father this morning," spoke up the younger lad (of not more
than nine years), "and he told me he guessed General Washington was
going to take Boston on the ice, and every soldier was going to take a
bundle of fagots along, so as to keep from sinking if the ice broke
through."
This bit of military news was received with shouts of laughter, that
echoed from tree to tree along the brook, and then the noon-day rest
was over. The wind began to blow in cooler and faster from the sea,
and busy hands were obliged to work fast to keep from stiffening under
the power of the growing frost.
When the new moon hung low in the west and the sun was gone, the
brookside, the cart-path, even the swamp fell back into its accustomed
silence, for the workers, in groups of eight or ten, had from minute
to minute gone homeward, leaving huge piles of fagots near the log
bridge.
Jeremy went early to bed that night. His right arm was weary and his
left arm ached; nevertheless, he went straightway to dreaming that
both arms were dragging his beloved mother forth from Boston.
At midnight his companion of the morning came and stood under his
chamber window, and tapped lightly with a bean-pole against the glass
to awaken him.
Jeremy heard the sound, but in his dream thought it was a gun fired
from one of the ships in the harbor at his mother, and himself, and
Boston.
"Jeremy, get up!" said somebody, touching his shoulder.
"Come, mother!" ejaculated Jeremy, clutching at the air and uttering
the words under tremendous pressure.
"Come yourself, lad," said somebody, shaking him a little roughly;
whereupon Jeremy awoke. "Get up, Jeremy Jagger. Hitch the oxen to the
cart. Put on the hay-rigging. Stay, I must help you to do that; but
hurry."
Jeremy rubbed his eyes, wondered what had become of his mother, and
how Mr. Wooster found his way into the house in the night, and lastly,
what was to be done. Furthermore, he dressed with speed, and awakened
the oxen by vigorous touches and moving words.
"Get up! get up!" he importuned, "and work for your country, and may
be you won't be killed and eaten for your country when you are old."
The large, patient eyes of the oxen slowly opened into the night, and
after awhile the vigorous strokes and voiceful "get ups" of their
master had due effect.
Mr. Wooster helped to adjust the hay-rigging, and then the large-wheeled
cart rolled grindingly over the frozen ground of the highway, until it
turned into the path leading into the swamp, over which the snow lay in
unbroken surface. Jeremy Jagger's was but the pioneer cart that night.
A half-dozen rolled and tumbled and reeled over the uneven surface behind
him, to the log bridge. It was cold and still. As the topmost fagot
was tossed on the pile in his cart he drew off a mitten, thrust his
benumbed fingers between his parted lips, and when he removed them
said: "I hope General Washington has had a better birthday than mine."
"I know one thing, my lad."
Jeremy turned quickly, for he did not recognize the voice. Even then
he could not discern the face; but he knew instantly that it was no
common person who had spoken. Nevertheless, with that sturdy,
good-as-anybody air that made the men of April 19th and June 17th
fight so gloriously, he demanded:
"What do you know?"
"That General Washington would gladly change places with you to-night,
if you are the honest lad you seem to be."
"Go and see him in his comfortable bed over there in Cambridge," was
Jeremy's response, uttered in the same breath with the word to his
oxen to move on. They moved on. The fagots reeled and swayed, the cart
rumbled over the logs of the bridge, and boy, oxen and cart were soon
lost to sight and hearing in the cedar thickets of the swamp.
Through the next two hours they toiled on, Jeremy on foot, and often
ready to lie down with the healthy sleep that would not leave its hold
on his weary brain.
It was day-dawn when the fagots had been duly delivered at the
appointed place and Jeremy reached home.
He had been cautiously bidden to see that the cart was not left
outside with its tell-tale rigging. He obeyed the injunction, shut the
oxen in, gave them double allowance of hay, and was startled by Aunt
Hannah's cheery call of: "Jerry, my boy, come to breakfast."
"Breakfast ready?" said Jeremy.
"Why, yes. I was up early this morning, and thought of you." And that
was the only allusion Aunt Hannah made to his night's work. He longed
to tell her and chat about it all at the table; but, remembering his
promise in the swamp, he said not a word.
Six nights out of seven Jeremy and his oxen worked all night and slept
nearly all day.
The brook in Cedar Swamp was robbed of its willows, and many another
bit of land and watercourse suffered in a like manner.
Then came the order to make the fagots into fascines. Two thousand
soldiers were got to work to effect this. Jeremy Jagger began to
understand what was going on behind the lines at Roxbury. He was the
happiest lad in existence during the ensuing days. He forgot to eat,
even, when the fascines were in making. Perceiving the manner in which
they were formed he volunteered to help, and soon found he could drive
the cross supports into the ground, lay the saplings upon them, and
even aid in twisting the green withes about them, as well as any
soldier of them all.
Bales of "screwed" hay began to appear in great numbers within the
lines, and empty barrels by the hundreds sprang up from somewhere.
And all this time, guess as every man might and did--the coming event
was known only to the commander-in-chief and to the six generals
forming the council of war.
Monday night, before sundown, Jeremy Jagger received an order. It
was:
March 4th.